A bored wizard
by The Sound Shaman
Summary: There are quite a few stories where Harry travels back in time. How about one where Voldemort does so?
1. Chapter 1

The desolate cityscape stretched out in front of him, the carcass of that great beast once known as society. He observed scores of automobiles, crushed, twisted, and melted into hideous globs by the might of his indomitable will. He inhaled deeply, and smelt nothing but blood and ash. Rivers of scarlet had coursed through the streets as London burned, but now they had solidified into a gelatinous sludge, one not nearly as dramatic as he would have expected. The war was over. Everyone was dead. For the first time in several days, he spoke. He uttered two words: "Fuck it."

The man spun around and disappeared without a sound. He poped back into existence in the highlands of Scotland, where once there had been a castle. He strode past the rubble of a gate, feeling the tingle of dying wards. He twirled his wand, and a sphere of blueish white energy gathered at its tip. Streaks of light shot into the slowly rotating sphere from all around, and after about a minute, the man flicked his wand sharply into the air. The sphere rocketed into the sky, flashed, and disappeared. He had just stripped all remaining ambient magic from the area previously known as Hogwarts.

An hour or so later, what little remained of the castle proper had been cleared away, and a flat circle of stone with a diameter of about 20 feet lay surrounded by bare dirt. The man raised his wand, and once more cleansed the area of magical residue. He was about to undertake an exceedingly delicate operation. With a small chisel and hammer the man spent 6 straight days carving arcane circles of runes into the stone. After finishing the ritual carvings, he stripped nude, laid down his wand, and stepped into a blank space in the middle of the runic array. He raised his hands, and slammed his wrists onto two protruding stone spikes, thus spilling his blood, and causing it to flow through the runes, thus activating the magic.

*34 years earlier*

"Troll! In the dungeons! Thought you ought to know" As the students began screaming, they did not notice a small mote of purple light shot through with black ribbons snap into existence. They did not notice it burrow into the back of Professor Quirrel's head.

Lord Voldemort was not a happy spirit. He had been stuck, weak as a child, in the back of some imbeciles head for months now. He was growing tired of it. All of a sudden, he felt pain, pain like he had known only once before, when that cursed Potter brat had cast him out of his body. The pain lasted only a few seconds, and then, he felt someone slip through his occlumency barriers. Lord Voldemort's mind disintegrated, as he was replaced by Lord Voldemort.

Rather than directing Quirrel to the third floor corridor, the new and improved Lord Voldemort made a beeline for the Room of Requirement. He entered the room of hidden things, and acquired a very special tiara. He assimilated his horcrux. He repeated this immensely painful process in the Malfoy mansion, the Gaunt shack, and Gringotts. He went to a small cave to retrieve and absorb his locket horcrux, but found it missing. Of course, this was no problem for the dark lord. A simple piece of blood magic was more than enough to locate such an important part of him. He found the horcrux in #12 Grimmauld Place, retrieved it, and absorbed it.

He had discovered that multiple horcruxes do bring immortality, but they also bring insanity. He was not bothered by this until after he had finished conquering the world. At that point, he realized that ruling a world with no people in it was absolutely no fun whatsoever. The insane Lord Voldemort of the future decided that his new goal was to have as much fun as possible. He developed a means of timetravel, and sent a fragment of his sould hurtling back through time. His goal was to reconstruct the entirety of his soul so that he could enjoy sanity while on his quest for amusement. Naturally, he figured that should the need ever arise, he could easily re-make horcruxes, and reconquer the world.

Now that the entirety of Lord Voldemort was possessing Quirrel, it was no challenge at all for him to brew up a few potions, carve a few runic arrays, and with the help of a human sacrifice, create an entirely new, whole, healthy body.

A dome of brilliant scarlet appeared over Hogwarts. Lightning crashed into and throughout it, vast amounts of destructive energy shredding the thousand year old wards. As the wards fell apart, a man swept down from the sky. He alight on the main steps, and with a flick of his hand, blasted open the doors. He strode through Hogwarts, and seconds later entered the great hall. He swept over to the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter was just about to sit down. Lord Voldemort seized him by the throat, and stroked one finger across Harry's famous scar. Harry screamed, as Voldemort tore his own soul out of the boy.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore watched in horror. The wards of Hogwarts had been overwhelmed within seconds, gates enchanted to stand against anything from primitive cannonfire to fiendfyre blasted off their hinges, and now the chosen one being assaulted.

The great hall was in an uproar, and Albus shouted "Silence!" Everyone stopped. Voldemort lowered Harry to the ground, and then quirked his head at his old headmaster as he finished sorting out his soul.

"Who are you?" thundered the greatest wizard of the century.

With an impossibly angelic expression of innocence, Lord Voldemort asked "Who me? Why, I am but a humble wizard. I grew bored of the pedantic lifestyle of my time, and returned here, to prevent the calamities which would make fun impossible"

Albus gazed at the strange man, dumbstruck. Voldemort turned around, and started walking away.

"Where are you going?" yelled Albus. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps Columbia. Or maybe Bolivia. Here's the way I figure it. I got bored, ruling an empty world, but now I'm back, I'm sane, and looking for some fun. Why does that mean Columbia? Well, I hear that cocaine's a hell of a drug"


	2. Chapter 2

Sanity is a fickle concept, and one not easily defined. It stands to reason that no one can possibly know him or her self to be sane, especially if he or she is insane. In fact, the craziest of nutters often believe themselves to be sound of mind. The year was 1991. The place, Heathrow International airport.

A young man strutted confidently through security, unnoticed due to his flawless execution of the notice-me-not charm. He looked at the departure boards, and noted that a flight was leaving for the Santa Lucia airport in Mexico city. He grasped a 13 inch stick, twisted it sharply, and muttered "nas", the imperative of an archaic latin word meaning, to appear suddenly. A perfect passport fell into his outstretched hand, along with a valid drivers license. He cracked his neck, munched on some candy he had recently stolen from a small child, and got in line.

The Mexican customs agents did give "Professor Tim Butterscotch" an odd look, but the man was wearing a nice suit, and the passport seemed to be in order, so Tim was allowed through.

He exited the airport and stepped out onto Caleta street. A short time later, perhaps three blocks, he happened upon a teenaged male sporting baggy jean shorts. "Where can I get cocaine boy?" He asked the boy. "No hablo engles cabron" was the young man's reply. Tim snarled, and his eyes flashed red. He had been around long enough to know what "cabron" meant. As quickly as a twelve year old on x box claims sexual relations with their opponents mother, Tim seized the boy by his jaw, and looked deep into his eyes. Tim then hurtled a brutal legilimency attack on the lad, not one seeking information, but one implanting it. He implanted fluency in the English language in about 12 seconds. "All right then… _cabron._" Tim said "where" he gave a menacing pause "can I find, cocaine?"

The boy was shaking with fear by this point, and in a language he'd never spoken up until this point, told the dark lord that some members of MS-13 hung out on a street corner just a few blocks away, and that perhaps they could assist him.

Tim thanked the boy, patted him on the head, and wandered off. It took him a while, but he eventually located the gang members he had been directed to. Tim walked up, and introduced himself. "Good day gentlemen" he said "I would like to but some drugs please." The young men looked at him as though he were from another planet, wondering what such a posh brit was doing in Mexico City. Three of these five young men happened to be bilingual, speaking both English and Spanish. One of them addressed Tim.

"Ay esse, why you think we got drugs man? Thas racist!" "Racist?" asked Tim. "No" He replied, his countenance growing ice cold. "I could care less about the color of ones skin. Once upon a time, I did care greatly about blood, but my existential crisis of boredom rid me of those prejudices." His face, which mere seconds ago had been merely figuratively cold, began reacting to his magical core. His eyes, usually a bright green, shifted to an icy blue, as frost began to creep along the ground towards the young gangsters. Tim took out his passport, and lit it on fire with a snap of his fingers.

"I was a fool to so quickly eliminate hatred from my life" he growled. "I can see that not all beings are scum. A female gave me a free beverage which sparkled. It tasted as good as the butterscotch candy I stole from the child. I hadn't tasted like that in decades! I plumbed the depths of dark magic and the results were terrible, in every sense of the word. They made me more powerful than your puny minds could comprehend, while also ridding me of the plebian pleasures which distract so much. Why, just a few moments ago I had an erection. It was very odd."

At this point the gangsters should have been rather frightened. A man who delivers a monologue about dark magic, candy, hatred, and boners can not be mentally stable. When you add to this the strange, seemingly somewhat supernatural events occurring, they boys should have run. Instead, they looked the posh brit dead in his eyes, and told him to leave.

His response was most unkind. He looked down, and paced back and forth over the span of about four feet, pauseing occasionally. He stroked his chin. "I can feel it coursing through me. The urge. Not so powerful as before, but there. I must kill. Rip. Tear. Kill. Gangs. I'll kill the gangs." His head snapped up as he looked over his left shoulder, and a maniacal gleam came to his eyes, and then spread, until his entire face was seething with an insane and gleeful anticipation. He said: "My name is Lord Voldemort" and then he pounced.

His right hand came up to chest level, formed a claw, and twist 180 degrees as he extended his arm violently. The boys were struck by some invisible force and slammed back into a wall. Two were killed on impact, with fractured skulls, and various crushed organs. The other three were not so lucky. One lay groaing on the ground. Lord Voldemort slowly raised his hand, palm up, and the boy moved along with the hand. Then Voldemort twisted his hand, so that his palm was facing the pavement, and jerked it violently towards the ground. The boy followed, and blood splattered.

The remaining two tried to run in opposite directions. Voldemort arrested the momentum of one, lifting the boy off of the ground with his mind. A wand flashed, and screaming blue whip of flame erupted from its tip. Distantly related to fiendfyre, this particular breed of flame whip appeared to contain writing beasts within its length. It shot out, and bisected the boy horizontally. With a twist and a flick of the wrist, Voldemort brought the whip around, and bisected him vertically.

He spun the last one around, and dove into his mind. With suitable information acquired, Voldemort snarled "Avada Kedavra!" and apparated away. He appeared on the steps of an MS-13 hangout. He blasted the doors off of their hinges, and stepped into the dilapidated den protected by a particularly clever bulletproof shield. There were four gang members in the room, and they all dove for guns immediately. Two of them even got shots off, but the bullets just slowed to a complete stop in front of Lord Voldemorts outstretched hand. He waited until the clips were expended, and lowered his shield, allowing the bullets to clatter to the ground.

Two more shouts of "avada kedavra!", followed by a muttered "accio cocaine".

As Voldemort arranged the lines, he broke into yet another impromptu short monologue. "Oh my goodness. Oh yes. I've wanted to do this for years, ever since Bella told me how lovely it was, oooh but curse that Pettigrew. What an incompetent loon, I mean seriously, what kind of idiot messes up the base potion so badly as to take away my nose?" He stopped his ramblings long enough to growl, shrug and then continued with a noise that sounded something like "meh" "I guess I'm lucky I had arms. But now. NOW! I. Have. A. Nose!" With this he plunged his face down and inhaled a serious amount of cocaine. As he rose from the table he looked around, and noticed that he really didn't feel much of anything. He screamed in rage, and launched a series of explosive hexes, exploding the house from the inside out. He then leapt into the air, and flew unharmed out of the rising fireball. Then, he started to feel, shakey, and landed on a nearby roof.

"Woah! Cocaine's a hell of a drug."


End file.
